


Patience and time

by Salamandersickfic



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Caretaking, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Injury Recovery, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 07:27:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9112684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salamandersickfic/pseuds/Salamandersickfic
Summary: Credence is able to pass along the care he has received from Newt. Original!Graves is in a bad way and not ready to accept it, but both of them need this.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lady_northstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_northstar/gifts).



> Posted in one long chunk because I can. 
> 
> Gift for lady_northstar for the prompt;  
> either Credence or both Credence and Newt taking care of a pretty roughed up real!Graves, that had been just freed from captivity.

_Credence is patient. Much of it is inborn and the rest had been beaten into him. In distress he longs to rock back and forth or to worry with his hands but harsh schooling has given him a capacity for almost perfect composure, saying nothing and giving away still less on his face._

_Mr Scamander, he of the kind hands and equally patient nature, had drawn this capacity out of Credence and shaped it into an affinity for the magical beasts that was almost as great as Newt's own. As he said, “If they seem scared, you keep your distance and you wait. There's no hurry. If you want to get a reaction or make a relationship, it's never worth rushing. If you panic them you'll ruin everything. Including your fingers.”_

_Okay, that last refers to the sharp beaks of hippogriff chicks but Credence figures that advice applies to people as well. It is an intimate knowledge, because that was how Newt Scamander had brought Credence back into himself, one day and act of intimacy at a time until the raging Obscurus inside him settled into trust._

_So Credence is patient. That didn't mean it is easy._

_It takes a long time for Mr Graves to wake up._  
...

 

i. Credence

 

 

It was quiet in the case. The trills and whoops of Newt's beasts were hush, as though out of respect for the newest addition to the menagerie.

Newt guided Credence through the habitats with a hand on his arm, talking to him in the low, confiding voice he used for all the wary creatures. Credence didn't mind this. The consistent calmness of Newt Scamander was what had brought him some way out of the dark in the past few months, and it seemed Credence might have a chance to pass that favour on.

“So you're aware,” Newt explained, “Mr Graves is very badly hurt, magically and physically. We don't know what Grindelwald did to him on top of keeping him locked away. He's very weak, he has several broken ribs and... well, he doesn't look like the man you knew. He isn't the man you knew. You do understand that, don't you Credence?”

He took Credence's shoulders gently for emphasis, lending him a rare gift of eye contact. Those hazel eyes were tight with worry.

“I think so, Sir.”

“Newt.” The man corrected, as he always did. “And I know you don't go out much, but you must tell absolutely no-one that he's here.”

“I won't.” Credence said. After all, who would he tell? He liked having Mr Graves as his secret.

Despite the warning, when Newt pushed open the door to a back room Credence hadn't know had existed (had it existed, prior to being needed?), Credence flinched when he saw the man lieing in the clean, white bed.

He had expected a stabbing flood of memories. _Graves' palms on his cheeks and pressing Credence into his broad chest. The smell of his overcoat. A slap to Credence's face followed by crooning apology and hands, hands everywhere._

They came, but were overtaken by a sharp pain he'd never felt for Graves before.

Pity?

It was hard for Credence to tally his memories with the man in front of him. This man was pale and thinner than the Mr Graves that Credence had known, with dark shadows under his eyes. The silvering at his temples seemed more pronounced, perhaps because his hair was longer, speaking of months of neglect.

Then there was the bruise at his hairline complete with a crust of blood. More blood under a lip that had swollen and split. From the way he sat, this was only the beginning of things.

Credence stiffened to run to the man. Newt's hand flew to his shoulder and stayed him.

Wait. Patience. Newt's eyes said.

Newt himself approached, leading Credence by one arm.

“Mr Graves.” Newt began. “Percival... do you know who this is?”

Percival's eyes focused and then squeezed shut as though he didn't want to see.

“It's Credence. My boy...”

....

 

ii. Percival Graves

 

 

Percival didn't want to open his eyes.

He felt as though he lay in a bed, as though he was warm. Every part of him hurt, with particular credit going to the right side of his body and the crown of his head, but the mind-pain of Grindelwald's magic seemed distant. In fact he wasn't aware of Grindelwald's presence at all. If he kept his eyes closed he could remain in this dream a little longer, feeling the weight of warm covers. Better still, he had thought he saw Credence's face. That was impossible. Better not to look. Returning to the cold cell would be too cruel to bear.

“Mr Graves?”

That was Credence's voice. He'd know that brink-of-tears hesitance anywhere.

“Mr Graves?” Again.

There was a touch on his shoulder. His consciousness returned to his body as though surfacing from filthy water.

He opened his eyes and felt relief. He was in a bed, a warm bed in some magical place belonging to the magizoologist, Newton Scamander. Every part of him still hurt but that didn't matter because Percival was in a bed, Grindelwald was gone and Credence Barebone was alive and well and sitting on the edge of the mattress.

The room was dark. A little globe of wand-light hovered above the boy's head. It cast severe shadows across the boy's striking face and made his lashes stand out against the pale cheeks, but the smudges under Credence's eyes had eased somewhat. He looked a good deal better than Percival felt.

Credence moved to kneel by the edge of the bed at a respectful distance, but Percival could see his hands clenching with desire to reach out.

“Do you know who I am?”

“I do, Credence. Do we have to go through this every time?”

The boy shuffled his feet. “Mr Scamander said it would be a good idea to check. Sorry. And you were yelling. When you were asleep. So I woke you up. Sorry.”

Had he been calling out? Percival's instinct was denial. Credence was the one who had nightmares, Credence was the one who needed someone beside him the dark. He-

He looked down and saw the sheets strewn to the four corners of the bed. Felt the sweat on his neck and the pillow.

“Don't say sorry.”

“Sor-” Credence caught himself and actually smiled. Percival would have paid real gold to see that smile more often. “Mr Scamander is out and he said I'm to watch you. It's time for you to have some more potion and-” He hesitated, shy. “And I made tea. And toast.”

The thought of food made his stomach turn over, but Credence's earnest face prompted him to haul himself up into a sitting position. Merlin, it hurt. He made a strangled sound that made Credence jump back a few inches.

He held out a hand and summoned his wand to him. He was proficient in wandless magic but the feel of the thing would be a comfort.

It didn't fly to his waiting palm.

No need to panic, no need to panic-

“My wand?” He asked Credence in a tight voice.

“Oh, yes, it's here.” The boy lifted it from a nearby shelf, holding it as though it were a stick of firewood in a way that would be comical if Percival didn't have more pressing concerns. Credence held it towards him and then hesitated, head down. “Mr Scamander said you're not to do magic, remember. Well, he, uh, said you might not be able to and you could hurt yourself trying.”

He blinked, caught between two masters.

Percival huffed impatiently. “Give it to me. I'll be careful.”

So Credence handed it over.

It was a relief to have it in his hand. Percival sat up straighter in bed and pointed the tip at a glass of water on the other side of the room.

“Accio.” He murmured.

The glass began its' flight towards him when an uncomfortable surge of vertigo nearly blinded him. It flew off course and dashed against the doorframe with a clink Percival barely registered. The feeling was like nausea, but in his head.

Acidic panic rose in his gut. Not being able to use magic was like having his hands tied, like being blind. It was like being in Grindelwald's grip all over again.

He asked through gritted teeth, “Did Scamander say when I can use magic again?”

The boy shook his head.

Percival swore. He rose automatically with intent to clear the shards, was seized by pain from his fractured ribs and slumped back, defeated.

Credence did the job quickly and with his head down.

“That's what happens when I do that spell too.” He said modestly.

The boy's face held an expression Graves hadn't seen before. “We're the same.”

Then an immediate, cringing backtrack; “I didn't mean- we're not the same, Sir. You're- I'm-”

Percival reached out to him, eager to fight the flush of shame and self loathing in the boy's face. There was no need for that now. As he took Credence's hand his sleeve fell back to show bruises and the silvery streaks of curse marks chasing across his skin. Credence took his hand with an arm that was equally scarred and their eyes met.

“Yes my boy.” Percival Graves sighed. “I guess we're the same.”

.........

 

iii. Credence Barebone

 

 

Credence liked routines. The first few days in Mr Scamander's case had been spent Obscurus-wise and spiralling in a cloud of horror and blankness against the non-existent walls. As he came back to himself he'd followed Newt Scamander around the case or sat on a chair in the little room Newt had made for him, rocking back and forth for want of something to do with himself. Things had gotten better when Mr Scamander started giving him jobs. Mr Scamander made Credence eat three meals a day and go to bed when he was tired and it helped. Having someone to rely on helped.

There was a new routine now and it centred on Mr Graves.

Mr Graves needed medicine and food. He needed waking up and helping to move around. Mr Scamander was often away or busy with the other creatures. He was often busy pretending to look for Mr Graves in the world outside his case, which made Credence smile internally. They had a secret.

So Credence was shown how to use some of the bottles and jars from the shed and how to mix them. Mr Scamander had warned him of things to watch out for and he dutifully watched. After all, it was a pleasure to watch Mr Graves.

The first time Credence lifted the sheets to put dittany over the curse marks and witch-hazel on the bruises on Mr Graves' flesh, Mr Graves had kept his head turned away and his eyes firmly shut. There was a film of fever on his brow and he winced with every movement. Credence himself could barely breathe. In the darkest and most sinful parts of the night he had imagined lifting Mr Grave's shirt but this wasn't how he had seen it. Even so, there was something about the pale, muscled expanse of Mr Grave's torso that drew his hands like magnets and Credence found he knew and understood the parts that hurt.

“Shh, I'll be quick. Lie still.” He murmured as he spread the potions over Mr Graves' skin.

He had learned that tone from Mr Graves himself after all.

When he touched the area around the man's ribs where the bruises bloomed like violets, the auror had winced and tried to push his hand away. Credence took the errant hand and held it still, laid the other on the man's cheek and continued the work. That was better.

Mr Graves needed someone to hold, he needed to listen to someone and he needed someone to need him. Mr Scamander hadn't given Credence those instructions. Those he had worked out by himself.

The next night Credence lay in his own bed. He tried to close his eyes and close out his own memories. He thought of the New Salemer's church, of his sisters and then inevitably of Mary Lou. He couldn't call her mother anymore but her face in his mind felt like a slap. Credence grit his teeth. He tried to do the exercises Mr Scamander had taught him. He breathed in and out, feeling the sensation in his real, corporeal body and denying the flailing freedom of raw magic that wanted to unspool. Some days it worked better than others and today it wasn't working well.

He was startled by a sound from outside his room. He must have imagined it. In this state he imagined a lot of things. There couldn't have been a sound like that from Mr Grave's bedroom.

Credence kicked the covers off and paced to and fro in his own room. When that didn't work he transferred himself to the habitats outside his door and lengthened his route. The night air was cool on his cheeks but it did nothing to soothe him. The creatures kept their distance. A usually affectionate fwooper fluttered dramatically out of the way as Credence passed it. He felt as though he was vibrating. He didn't know how long he spent in pacing restlessly along the path. Eventually his feet brought him to Newt's shed and to the room where Mr Graves was sleeping.

Credence raised his eyes to see his hand on the doorknob.

Of course. It was always Mr Graves that he craved when he felt the Obscurus and his own shame rise in him, and for the first time the man was there to answer his need.

Credence eased the door open. The room inside was muggy, warmer than his own had been. It smelled slightly of medicinal potions but it also smelled of Mr Graves. A single breath of it made Credence's head clearer.

He meant only to slip in, to watch the man sleeping and soak in his presence. He didn't reckon with the reflexes of an auror.

He also didn't expect to find Mr Graves on the floor, reading Newt's Daily Prophet by the glow of a muggle flashlight.

“What- you're-” It was hard to find words when the Obscurus spiralled inside him.

Percival sat up with equal concern. “Credence- my boy, what are you doing awake? Come here.”

He held out his arms and Credence flew to him at once. They ended at the side of the bed together in a tangle of limbs, settling easily in an embrace that put Credence's head against the soft fabric of Graves' pyjamas. Credence pressed his head against Mr Grave's chest, shamelessly seeking the warmth. They could have been in any of the alleyways of New York. He could feel the sting of his own belt, the rage and shame and shock of it. And he remembered that was over. He looked up and saw Mr Graves' face very close to his own.

“You're frightened.” Percival Graves said.

“Sorry. I'm okay. It doesn't matter.”

Percival hushed him with a calloused thumb against his lip. “You're allowed to be frightened, after what you've been through”

Those words, you're allowed, nearly Credence sobbing. He was allowed to be here, to be safe, allowed to feel. He was allowed Mr Graves. And oh, how he wanted him. He pressed his head against the man's breast again, safe in the knowledge that noone was going to make him hurry away. No one could see him here. Mr Graves leant in to him but also shifted, swearing under his breath and pressing his other hand to his side. Credence started away at once.

“I'm hurting you-”

“It's nothing.” Mr Graves took the hand away, almost guilty. But Credence had returned to himself and he see the older man didn't look good either. He was equally pale, his face tight with pain.

“Why are you on the floor?” Credence asked.

The man suddenly averted his eyes, finding something very interesting on the opposite wall. On impulse, Credence put a hand to his cheek and turned his face to make those dark eyes meet his own.

“Did you... fall out of bed?”

Graves clamped his mouth shut and gave a tiny shrug. His face was furious with shame.

“And then you couldn't get up, because of your ribs and everything...” Credence finished, wonderingly. “Why didn't you call me?”

The moment he'd said it, Credence felt stupid. Of course Percival Graves, Director of Magical Security and Head of MACUSAs Department of Magical Law Enforcement, wouldn't call out to ask anyone to help him up off the floor. Until very recently he could have used magic, and he was clearly not a man used to asking for assistance. He wasn't like Credence Barebone; dependent upon the pity of strangers.

Mr Graves shrugged again. It was lopsided, favouring the side with less bruising.

“I was just taking a rest, before I got back into bed.”

“Of course you were.” Credence agreed. “But since I'm here, why don't you get up now?”

He extended an arm and with an effort he helped the man lift himself back onto the bed. Mr Graves did not cry out, but as they were suspended together with the the auror's sweat-dampened ribs pressed close to Credence's own chest he felt the man give a shuddering sigh that was all the more painful for it's silence. Credence felt an answering prickle in his own skin, a sinful response to the man's suffering. He'd rarely seen Mr Graves as anything but composed.

The pair collapsed onto the mattress. Credence helped Mr Graves rotate his body around and lowered him down with his head on this pillow.

“Is that okay?” He asked nervously.

“Yes. Thank you, Credence.”

 

.....

 

 

 

iii. Percival Graves

The boy lowered him carefully onto the mattress. The wrenching pain in his ribs was better when he lay still and Percival took a moment to breathe and settle himself.

He'd thought there could be no greater indignity than having a dark wizard parade around using his face. It was ridiculous to think anything could come close. Yet despite all rational thought, being unable to lift himself onto the bed he had fallen out of was an indignity Percival had not been prepared for. His remaining pride smarted as though the boy had slapped him rather than merely leaned over to ask, “Is that okay?”

His breath was warm on Percival's cheek.

“Yes. Thank you, Credence.”

Percival closed his eyes, feigning sleep. It was a poor way to escape the intimacy of the situation but it was the only one he had. Sadly Credence himself and Percival's own beleaguered body had other ideas.

There was a gentle hand on his forehead. Credence was checking him for a fever, perhaps. Next the boy's hand gauged the bruising on his crown with a touch and then there came the sound of a potion bottle being uncorked. Behind his closed eyelids the light flared and when Percival opened his eyes there was another warm glow of magical light hovering in the ceiling. That was impressive- Credence didn't have a wand and he hadn't spoken aloud.

Merlin, that boy was going to be a force to be reckoned with.

It was hard to tally that with the gangly young man who stood over him with a flask of dittany in one hand and the cork held temporarily between his teeth.

“I'm going to put some on your head.” Credence murmured around it.

It stung like a bastard. Credence either didn't notice or he had a true healer's capacity for detachment as he dabbed a little on a cloth and wiped it across Graves' brow.

“Can you feel where the curses were?” He asked.

Percival allowed the boy to lift his shirt again and used the fingers of his stronger arm to point to his ribs and to other less obvious places where the impact of Grindelwald's magic had corrupted his flesh. The crucio curse had left no mark but the build-up of magical suffering combined with months of neglect and physical abuse had left his torso sensitive and raw. No wonder he could barely raise himself on one elbow, let alone stand without help. Credence seemed to sense these and he swabbed the dittany carefully over most of Graves' torso. He fetched another potion for bruising and added that as an afterthought. The coolness was soothing but it made Graves shudder, his skin pricking into gooseflesh.

Percival thought he heard Credence's breath catch and stutter as he worked. The boys face was flushed crimson and he could barely meet Percival's eye. That was curious.

When the work was done, Credence returned his nightshirt and shifted the bedclothes to lay Percival underneath. It was colder now and a fit of shivering overtook Percival. He gritted his teeth the tamp the motion down but Credence saw and his brows raised in concern.

“You're cold.” Credence hovered for a moment, hands working nervously at the hem of his own shirt. His adam's apple bobbed. Perhaps there was a whisper of the Obscurus moving behind his eyes.

The next thing Percival knew, Credence settled on the edge of the bed. His weight was tentative. He held himself as though expecting a slap or worse, head averted as he asked the question,

“Can I- stay here?”

“My boy...” Percival breathed out. As if this wasn't what he had desperately wanted from the moment he had gotten to know Credence Barebone.

“It's okay if you don't want to, I just... it's cold. My room was cold too. And I was scared and maybe if I stayed here I... Sorry.”

He tailed off. Percival could hear him breathing as though he was running. Even so, for Credence to ask for what he wanted like this was an amazing milestone. Newt Scamander must have been doing something right.

“Come on. It's okay.” He made a space for the boy to settle on the mattress beside him, favouring his good side. Credence collapsed against him with something like a sob, pressing his face into Percival's chest again and clutching onto him as he had in the alley.

“Shh.” Percival murmured. He pressed his lips to the top of the boy's head. He even smelled different, clean and warm and animal. It sent a thrill into Percival's belly and into other parts which had been dormant since Grindelwald had taken away his life. Despite the pain in his ribs he felt exhilaratingly, almost alarmingly, alive.

The boy Credence was almost vibrating with fear and suppressed pleasure. Percival Graves felt it too. In another life he might have grabbed the boy to him and taken what he wanted, but the body he was in now was broken and his head was somehow changed. There would be time. He thought he could feel the same tightness and desire in Credence's body, though the boy was too exhausted to do anything about it. Who knew where that might lead?

In the mean time, Percival felt as though he might actually sleep.

 

 

....

_Credence is patient. It took a long time for him to return to his body and begin to work around the raging Obscurus that was his magic, even longer to live with the pain of his experiences. Mr Scamander had helped and time had helped._

_Credence is patient and a large part of him hopes Mr Graves' recovery will be slow. He senses great things and great change on the horizon but for once he is able to enjoy the state of uncertainty, the glorious not-knowing. He is patient with Mr Graves' pain and his fear. The same slow movements he has learned for the hippogriffs will aid him in approaching a beast just as beautiful and dangerous. His body aches sometimes with wanting things that may come in the future, but for now Credence is as patient as can be._

END.


End file.
